


Inside Scoop

by swat117



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dairy - Gelato, Dairy - Ice Cream, Dairy - Soft Serve, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Husbands, Lactose-tolerant, M/M, New York City, flavor or flavour?, only slightly self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/pseuds/swat117
Summary: Patrick and David: ice cream elitists. It was an accident, they swear.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 29
Kudos: 99





	Inside Scoop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/gifts).



> a very happy birthday to this-is-not-nothing!  
> I'm still mad about [Slice of Life.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845598) This is my formal response. 
> 
> thanks to [NeelyO](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neelyo) for the lighting fast, last minute beta. 💕

+1

When David finally finds him, Patrick is in the freezer aisle, lost in the glass.

“There were some things I knew I’d have to give up,” Patrick says, “You know, marrying you. But then there are the unexpected side effects. This might be the worst one yet.”

“Okay, though, are you really worse _for it?”_

“That’s not what I said. Can you just let me mourn for a minute?”

“Sure, honey. I’ll be by the cereal.”

Three days later (one day of careful research followed by the two-day Amazon Prime delivery window) the Brewer/Rose household is the proud owner of a Whytner ICM-15LS Home Ice Cream Maker.

Patrick spends a week online, searching for foolproof at-home recipes. Start with the best ingredients, almost every one says in big bold letters at the top of each post. At least he’s got that part covered—they stock nearly everything at the store he needs for a few simple flavors.

He makes the custard, cools it while he does some other chores, and then pours it into the mixing barrel. It’s been churning for twenty minutes when David gets home.

“Ooh, today’s the big day,” David says, setting his tote down on a chair at the kitchen table and walking up behind Patrick where he’s washing dishes.

“Don’t get too excited,” Patrick says into a hello kiss. “It could be terrible.”

“Nah, I know you did your homework. My diligent husband.”

“The last time you called me that it was definitely an insult.”

“People change.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says and gives another peck before leaning over to look through the transparent lid of the machine. “I’m supposed to start checking it every five minutes now.”

“Message received,” David says with fake annoyance, hands up, as he heads out of the kitchen. Patrick sets a repeating timer on his phone.

It chills in the freezer, smoothed lovingly into one of his mother’s Pyrex, until after dinner. Until they’ve moved onto the couch where David lies long-ways with his sock-feet resting in Patrick’s lap. He wiggles his toes to get Patrick’s attention.

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says, pushing David’s legs off him to stand.

In the kitchen, Patrick fills a mug with hot tap water and dips the ice cream scoop in. After all this effort, he’s not going to suddenly do it halfway. He meets no frozen resistance as he forms a perfect, cream-yellow ball. Then another and another until they have three scoops each. He heads back into the living room.

David is right where he left him, flipping through Netflix titles. He lifts his feet up and Patrick slides right back into place.

“You first,” Patrick says, handing over a bowl and spoon.

David lifts the bowl close up to his face and inspects the contents. He dips the spoon with a delicate hand, pops it in his mouth, and pulls it out slowly around a moan.

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s so fucking good, babe,” David says around his second bite. “Oh my god.”

“Good,” Patrick says.

His own first taste isn’t off the spoon but David lips.

🍦

“I’m pretty sure West Elm stole this idea from us,” David says, scouring at a display labeled _Made in New York._ Letterpress greeting cards, beaded ornaments, and candle scents named after intersections. “Locally made or not, this person has clearly never been on Bleeker Street. Everything east of Sixth Ave smells like the Morton Williams and everything west like Murray’s Cheese. Not that I’d complain about a Murray’s Cheese scented candle...”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I can’t look at this anymore. Forty-five dollars for a pillow sham? And it’s not even hand sewn.”

David drags him out of the store and into a view of Manhattan framed through black bridge wires. They walk along the water, past a glass-enclosed carousel, a red brick theatre playing something in German, then under the bridge, and stop at a traditional white house, set out of place by the urban surroundings.

“Oooh,” David says, petting Patrick on the shoulder. “Can we?”

Patrick wouldn’t recommend ice cream on the shore of a blustery river, in the middle of November, as the sun is starting to set. But what Patrick would recommend is: The hum of his husband’s lips around a spoon of his peaches & cream. The double dip that leaves a streak of chocolate behind, accidentally transferred from David’s own cup of choice. Later, as they walk back to the subway, his husband squeezing his hand, scrunching in closer to say, “Why did we do that? I’m so cold. Cold on the inside _and_ the outside.” Standing in a hug on the platform as they wait for the train. Taking a too long, too hot shower together when they make it back to the apartment.

So, yeah. 10/10. Would do again.

*

They’re back at Brooklyn Bridge Park, but it’s summer. The culprit always returns to the scene of the crime.

While Brooklyn Ice Cream factory is nothing to write home about, it holds space in Patrick’s memory. If David is bothered by this nostalgic outing, by Patrick wordlessly leading him over to the white house—giving a coy smile as they wait in line to order is a weird way to show it.

They eat outside, racing against the melting powers of the sun. David drinks the last of his portion in a final, clinched victory. The park is busy today. The carousel is opened up and full of screaming kids. Their moms huddle in groups on the sidelines with strollers and iced lattes. A young couple passes by with their own cones. David tracks them with his eyes and Patrick watches the shadow form on his neck as he turns.

“Oh god.”

“Hmm?” Patrick rolls his head to the side, drags his eyes away from the lines of David to see what he might be looking at.

“I forgot there’s an Ample Hills here too.”

“An ample—what?”

“Ice cream. More ice cream. Second ice cream.” David is already standing up to leave. “Can we?”

“As if you need or want my approval.”

“Oh my god, this place has the breakfast food one.”

Patrick laughs to the back of David, bounding off towards the water and a small concrete booth. He follows behind, lets David order four kids’ cups of different flavors. Patrick pays. The money is from a joint checking account anyway. But if it makes David feel treated? Swipe away. Well, technically it’s a tap card.

“There’s coffee cake _in the ice cream,”_ David says, mouth caught in a jumble of dairy, fighting brain freeze as he speaks and eats and gestures like he’s giving a lecture. His red spoon is the laser pointer as his face cycles through slides of a thesis on pleasure. “There’s donuts _in the ice cream.”_

“I think I like this one more,” Patrick says around a bite of vanilla cream and gooey butter cake. “Mmm. Cookie one’s nice too. But a deeper cocoa in the biscuit would really set it apart.”

“Well aren’t we a regular Mary Berry today.”

*

I wasn’t going to ask for third ice cream,” David says, swiping at his phone. “But your oh-so-refined palette gave me an idea.”

They aren’t rushing anywhere, no sisters to see or reservations to make. Just a day in the park. Two adult married men who can eat as much ice cream as they damn well please. Maybe Patrick should find issue with it, but he can’t be bothered.

David leads him back under the bridge, down a side street, and into a glass fronted parlor, styled in red and white vintage stripes. Patrick takes his first bite of a miso peanut butter scoop with caution. His next bite of matcha black sesame with excited anticipation. A spoon of Thai tea with a smile on his lips.

“I’ve been lied to my whole life,” he says. “I’ve been lied to by Haagen-Dazs and Breyer’s. Ben. _And Jerry.”_

“Okay, put down the spoon before you hurt someone.”

“How am I going to go back to grocery store brands after this?”

“Hey, trash ice cream has a meaningful time and place in all our lives. Like, in bed at two a.m.”

“No, nope. You’ve ruined me.” Patrick glares a hole into the bottom of the now-empty cardboard cup. “Do you think they ship internationally?”

*

After pork belly buns and spicy Thai chicken wings and ramen, the soft serve sneaks up on them. He’s leaning back on his stool, taking a swig of his Tiger, when the waiter sets it down. Caramel-beige, swirled high, and dusted with crushed pretzels.

“You first,” David says with a welcoming gesture. Patrick raises an eyebrow at his husband, untrusting of this gastrological generosity. Still making warry eye contact, he picks up the wooden spoon.

“Ohmygod,” he says around the mouthful. “Oh my god.” He swallows. “It’s so salty, but it’s not too salty.”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“Shut up,” Patrick says and stuffs the spoon in David’s mouth.

“Oh my _god,”_ David says, looking with wide eyes between the bowl and Patrick. “I’ve never had the pretzel flavor.” He grabs the spoon out of Patrick’s hand and tucks back in. “This is so good I’m mad about it. But I still don’t forgive Chrissy. She only came up with cereal milk after a particularly sloppy night out and equally sloppy morning after with me. And what did I get out of it? Am I the host of MasterChef now? _No.”_

“Do you want to be the host of MasterChef?”

“Not the point!”

Patrick flags down the waiter, laughing, leaning into David’s shoulder, and orders another cup.

*

They meant to stop in just for a drink. The drink turned into a cheese plate, then into pizza, and now they are onto dessert. Sitting at the corner of the marble-top bar, they pour over the gelato list. _Milk Chocolate Chip, Olive Oil, Fior di Latte, Hazelnut, Caramel, Cinnamon._

“All of them?” Patrick says.

“I’ve trained you well.”

They put in the order and David splits the last of the wine between their glasses.

“I’m so ready to go home,” David says after a long, silent sip.

“We _just_ put in another order.”

“Not home like, to the hotel home. Like, _home_ home. Tomorrow. As planned.”

“David Rose doesn’t want to be in New York anymore. Are you feeling okay?” Patrick puts the back of his hand on David’s forehead, frowns in the act.

“There is such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

“I was a bit worried I’d have to kidnap you to get you back to Schitt’s Creek, actually.”

“Mm, no, but you can tie me up anytime.”

“I had plans for the plane tomorrow, but now that it won’t be a surprise—”

Two frosty silver dishes piled high with a warm-toned paint swatch of scoops are set down in front of them, a thin waffle cookie stuck to the top of each mountain.

David glares at Patrick, back at the ice cream, back at him again.

“Too much of a good thing?” Patrick says.

“Never.” David picks up his spoon and pokes around the flavors. “Start here,” he says, and swaps their dishes. “Olive oil.”

Patrick needs no further preamble. Who knew he’d be thirty-six and only just discovering the world of semi-savory ice creams? He’s going to use all the remaining years he has left pursuing his dreams for further lacto-perfection. He tunnels in past the other colors to a cool, creamy yellow. David smiles small at him, low light and candle flames casting a shadow of eyelashes over his cheek.

Patrick tastes.

Definitely dessert, but a complicated sweetness that doesn’t linger on his tongue, pushed away as he swallows by the undeniable fattiness of the oil. A sweetness that he could taste unendingly, perfectly balanced with brine.

He tangles spoons with David’s as he goes in for a second bite and decides to feed him instead.

“Thanks,” David says, but it’s softer than a simple gratitude should be.

Patrick tangles their fingers together, resting on David’s knee. “Hey. Of course,” he says. “Of course.”


End file.
